


(every other season comes along and i'm alright) but then i miss you most at christmas time

by everdeen



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Christmas, F/M, and peeta stays up for santa claus, katniss is santa claus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everdeen/pseuds/everdeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello?” a deep voice echoes through the thick darkness of the sitting room, and she almost sighs to herself in annoyance. Oh, sweet Jesus.<br/>“Who’s there?” the voice questions. <i>Please go away,</i> Katniss retorts silently. <i>Please. So I can give you your darn presents and be on my merry way.</i><br/>“Dad? Is that you?”<br/><i>Oh my God, </i> Katniss slumps against the wall in near-defeat. It seems like this human isn’t planning on going away any time soon.<br/>“Of course it’s not,” the voice mumbles to itself in resignation. “I would’ve heard him come down the stairs.”<br/><i>Great,</i> she thinks to herself. <i>Not enough that I’ve got a human. I’ve got a human who talks to himself.</i><br/>She can hear heavy footsteps coming into the room she’s in, and, not for the first time that night, Katniss thinks about how much she hates everything.<br/>Especially Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(every other season comes along and i'm alright) but then i miss you most at christmas time

**Author's Note:**

> this is for [jackie ](http://mockingdream.tumblr.com), who asked for an everlark one shot and is generally perfect. i kinda went wild with this but i had a lot of fun writing it as an au, so sorry not sorry for the length, and happy christmas! the title is taken from the [mariah carey song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XU7hVAZkvXU) (i’m shameless) which hit me right in the gut and should be required christmas listening for everyone on the planet.
> 
> enjoy!

Of all the things that Katniss has inherited from her father, this is what she’s been dreading the most.

This... _hike_ across the globe to give people their goddamn _Christmas presents._

 _Ho fucking ho_ , she thinks grimly as she peers into what she thinks is at least the seventy millionth chimney of the night. _Prim should do this_ , she tells herself, sitting gingerly on the roof and throwing her legs over the edge of the chimney. Then again, Prim probably wouldn’t get through even the first chimney unscathed. Her younger sister had inherited several flattering qualities from their father, but his dexterity was not one of them.

No, that was all left to Katniss. As was all the goddamn _responsibility_.

 _How beautifully ironic,_ she continues her inner monologue as she jumps through the chimney and lands in the fireplace near-silently. _Saint Nicholas’ daughter hating Christmas._

Again, another reminder of why Prim is better suited for the task, its physical requirements aside. She loves Christmas. Their tree at home is currently covered in enough tinsel to satisfy at least five dozen houses, and Katniss is almost completely sure that her sister is the only one to actually take the words _deck the halls with boughs of holly_ completely seriously, because every time she even tries to _move_ in the house there’s a nine out of ten chance that the prickly plant will attempt to poke her eyes out.

The house she’s currently in has a large tree, so many lights weighing it down that Katniss is surprised it hasn’t toppled over. She steps out of the fireplace and pads quietly across the wide sitting room to it. She thinks she hears the breathing of someone else, and freezes for a moment, only to relax. _It’s one in the morning, Katniss_ , she tells herself, shifting the bag over her shoulder laden with wrapped presents to a more comfortable position. _No one’s awake at one on Christmas morning_.

That’s the moment, of course, when she hears a sneeze.

People do several things when they’re asleep. They talk. They mumble. They walk. They cough. They turn over. They laugh. They cry. And they scream. In just one night (or morning, depending on how you look at it), Katniss has become extremely familiar with all the things people are capable of doing despite being unconscious. In one house, she was loathe to leave, hearing pained and muffled screams coming from upstairs. In fact, she only began to climb back up the chimney when she heard a male voice, gentle and syrupy with sleep, begin to mutter soothing words and comfort the screamer. Even so, the sounds rang in her ears for the next five houses.

Now, though, she is not hearing screams. She is hearing a sneeze. And if there’s one thing people do _not_ do when they are asleep, it’s sneeze.

Katniss plasters herself to the closest wall immediately, forcing herself to keep her breathing even and barely audible. She is not in the mood to encounter a human, especially when she’s still got six more states of this blasted country to get through.

“Hello?” a deep voice echoes through the thick darkness of the sitting room, and she almost sighs to herself in annoyance. _Oh, sweet Jesus._

“Who’s there?” the voice questions. _Please go away,_ Katniss retorts silently. _Please. So I can give you your darn presents and be on my merry way._

“Dad? Is that you?”

 _Oh my God_ , Katniss slumps against the wall in near-defeat. It seems like this human isn’t planning on going away any time soon.

“Of course it’s not,” the voice mumbles to itself in resignation. “I would’ve heard him come down the stairs.”

 _Great_ , she thinks to herself. _Not enough that I’ve got a human. I’ve got a human who talks to himself._

She can hear heavy footsteps coming into the room she’s in, and, not for the first time that night, Katniss thinks about how much she hates everything.

 _Especially_ Christmas.

She has resigned herself to her fate when the owner of the voice, a tall, rather stocky boy with waves of ashy blonde hair falling across his forehead, comes into the room and stops short at the sight of her almost hugging the wall. What is rather surprising is his reaction, which is ridiculously calm, and far more collected than she’s expecting, considering she’s just heard him talk to himself.

“I’m probably going to call the police in, like, twenty seconds,” he informs her lightly.

Katniss resists the urge to snort. She could be out of the country, let alone the house, before he could even type  - what was the emergency number in America? 922 or something? – into his keypad. “You don’t want to do that,” she informs him, fully aware that she isn’t in a position for such iciness to be in her tone of voice, but hey, she can’t do anything about that.

“Why not?”

“Because then, how would you be able to get all these _amazing_ presents?” Her voice is now probably about as dry as a desert, if not drier. Nothing she can do about that, either.

The boy’s brows furrow. “Are you a burglar masquerading as Santa Claus? Because I’m telling you now, the flaw in the plan kind of lies in the fact that you’re of the wrong gender.”

This time, Katniss does snort. “I wish I was.”

“So...you’re not a burglar?”

“Can’t say I am,” Katniss is beginning to grow bored of this situation, but she forgot the funny dust that erases human memories at home, so she’s going to have to humour this boy in order to get out of his house unscathed.

“What are you?”

“Santa Claus,” she replies, because, well, she kind of is?

“No, but really.”

She whips around to pin him with a glare that could curdle dairy. “Yes. I am Santa Claus. I may not look the part, but I sure as hell got the sled and the giant bag of presents to prove it.”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Sled?”

 _Male humans and their vehicles_ , she sniffs to herself with disdain. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

He looks for a moment that he might actually believe her, then shakes his head. “No way. Santa Claus isn’t even real.”

“Okay,” Katniss replies simply, crossing over to the tree and beginning to empty the contents of her sack under it. If Prim were here, she’d probably tell her not to leave the presents in such a haphazard pile, and make an effort to at least arrange them decently, but Katniss doesn’t really want to, if the rest of the family is much like the boy standing across from her.

“What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” she grits out.

“Are those... _presents_?”

“Wrapped and delivered specially for you,” Katniss retorts in a ridiculously sweet tone without missing a beat.

She gets up, dusting herself off, and looks him over. His expression would be rather comical, if she wasn’t in such a sour mood.

“You’re...real,” he gapes.

“I thought we’d covered that already,” she replies tersely, already making a beeline for the fireplace.

“You’re actual, genuine _Santa_? But...why do we all think you look like an old guy with a white beard? And that you wear red?”

At that, Katniss glances down at her own entire, comprised of a dark green sweater, brown trousers, and shin-high boots. “I wasn’t in the mood to don the traditional costume,” she mutters.

“And why is your name _Santa_? Or Nick? Or whatever?”

“My name isn’t Nick,” she corrects with a sigh. “That was my great grandfather’s name. Every time the next boy in the family is old enough to take the job, he adopts the name Nick. Kinda like those popes you have here, or in Vatican City, or whatever.”

“So, where’s the boy in your family?”

Katniss pauses. “My father died last summer,” she says softly after some time, and it’s easier when she can barely make out his face in the darkness, because it means she won’t see the pity that she knows is there. “It’s only me and my sister now.”

“Oh,” he says, and the word is heavy. “Well...what _is_ your name?”

She blinks in surprise. “What?”

“Your name. What is it?”

Katniss opens her mouth, only to close it again with a slight shake of her head. Names mean introductions. And talking. She doesn’t do that. “I don’t have time for this,” she says, turning back towards the fireplace.

“Aw, c’mon,” the boy says, and she doesn’t like the tone in his voice, warm and teasing. “I bet it’s something really pretty, like...Rose.”

At this, Katniss can’t help but turn back around to give him a look of utter disdain. She can just make out the corners of his lips quirking upwards in the dim light. “Okay, maybe not Rose. But my point still stands. Pretty name for a pretty girl, right?”

 _Humans_ , she thinks with mild disgust. _Always ready to flirt at a moment’s notice._ She doesn’t bother to dignify his words with an answer, choosing instead to step into the fireplace and place a foot on the brick of the chimney.

“Hey, wait, don’t go! We, uh, we’ve actually got cookies and milk and stuff – wait, let me just go get them – please don’t leave in the five seconds it’ll take me to go get them! I promise it’s worth it!”

Katniss listens to the sound of his footsteps receding into the kitchen, and purses her lips. Now is, theoretically, the best time to leave. But for some reason, her body just doesn’t want to.

“I’ve got them!” she can hear his voice, far closer now, and sighs to herself, knowing she’ll regret this later. “You know, I kinda thought you would take off just now...”

“Believe me, it was tempting,” Katniss mutters, backing out of the chimney and stepping out of the fireplace. She turns around, and finds herself suddenly face to face with him. A few long, drawn-out moments pass, and she can make out the faint smell of cinnamon on him, and the flecks of grey in his blue eyes, and the way his chest rises and falls steadily, methodically, and then he clears his throat and takes a step back.

“Uh, here,” he holds out a plate piled high with biscuits towards her. “I made them.”

Katniss takes them from him carefully, and almost lets her eyes widen when she can see them more clearly, because even she has to admit that they’re beautiful, swirled with red, green, and white patterns, delicate pictures of reindeer and elves and holly. _Prim would love these_ , she thinks to herself, and she’s almost reluctant to eat them and destroy the handiwork.

(Almost. The whole jumping down chimneys thing isn’t exactly easy work, and there aren’t many families who actually do the cookies and milk thing anymore, which is what Katniss really thinks is the only benefit to the entire job anyway.)

She thinks maybe she should compliment him, or at least _thank_ him, but all that she can think to say as she grabs a cookie from the plate is: “I thought you didn’t believe in Santa Claus?”

He only grins. “You know, you are nothing like I’d expect Santa Claus to be.”

“Oh?” Katniss says with dry amusement. “What’s different? The lack of the beard? The wrong coloured clothes? The age? Maybe the gender?”

“Well, there is that, yes,” he agrees, holding out the plate to her once more when he sees that she’s already finished off her second cookie. “But it’s more that you’re probably the least Christmassy person I’ve ever met.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she mutters around a mouthful of shortbread (which tastes as good as it looks, if not better. She doesn’t think she’s tasted such good biscuits since... _ever._ )

“So,” the boy watches her finish her fourth cookie with what she thinks is amusement. Despite herself, Katniss feels her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and reaches for the glass of milk on the table, drinking around half of it in one gulp. “You never told me your name.”

Katniss frowns into her milk. This again? But he gave her cookies, she reasons. She owes him for that.

“I’m Katniss,” she says, a little hesitantly.

“Katniss,” the boy repeats, and she doesn’t like the look of the smile inching its way back onto his lips. “I’m Peeta,” he says, even though she didn’t ask. Katniss nods, almost reluctant to acknowledge him.

“Did you like the cookies?” he asks teasingly, a knowing glint in his eye. She only huffs at him, getting up from the table and crossing once more to the fireplace.

“They were...nice,” Katniss replies, even though there are probably a thousand better words to describe the cookies, with their intricate icing and the way they melted in her mouth. “Thank you,” she manages.

The smile on Peeta’s face is almost as bright as the lights on his family’s tree. “Least I could do. Considering you left us our presents and all.”

Katniss studies him for a moment, then looks away quickly. “I should go,” she says abruptly.

“Oh,” she’s not looking at Peeta, but she can hear the disappointment in his voice. “Right. Of course. I bet you’ve still got loads of houses to get through, right?”

“Right,” she glances over at him, and watches as he shifts awkwardly.

“Okay,” he says quietly, offering her a hesitant smile. “I guess I’ll see you next year, huh?”

“Yeah.”

She climbs the chimney, trying desperately to ignore the hint of warmth inside her at the memory of his smile.

 

**_one year later_ **

 

Katniss has all but forgotten Peeta by the time she jumps down his chimney the following year, but it seems the same cannot be said for him.

“Katniss!” he exclaims as soon as she’s stepped out of the fireplace, and she shushes him quickly, but one glance at his blue eyes and blonde hair and it all comes back in a tumble of thoughts and memories; cinnamon, cookies, hesitant smiles and steady heartbeats.

She feels a little dazed. God knows why.

“I made cookies,” he tells her, sounding for all the world like a kindergartner proudly showing off a finger-painting he’d made in class.

“Again?” she asks, but she lets him drag her to the table.

“I made a few more than usual,” Peeta informs her, nodding towards the plate, which, sure enough, is piled high with biscuits.  Katniss frowns.

“Why?”

“Well, apart from the fact that _someone_ almost finished them off singlehandedly last time...” he says.  Katniss turns to face him, fully expecting bitterness and annoyance to be plastered on his face, only to let her frown deepen when she sees only amusement and a hint of teasing.

She doesn’t like it.

“I thought your sister might like some too,” Peeta continues, oblivious to her confused thoughts.

“Prim?” Katniss says without thinking. Peeta’s smile grows.

“Is that her name?” he asks.

“No – I mean, yes, but – we don’t need your cookies,” she tells him, tone growing hard. Peeta, for his part, looks more surprised than anything.

“I mean, sure – of course you don’t, I just meant she might like them, is all,” he explains earnestly.

She eyes the plate doubtfully. Peeta’s right. Prim _would_ like the cookies. In fact, Katniss can already hear the resounding squeals that would ensue if she ever set eyes on Peeta’s biscuits. She picks one off the plate and bites into it, chews and swallows slowly. They’re no less delicious than they were the last time she tasted them. “I only ever mentioned her once,” Katniss says after some time, eyeing him carefully.

“Who?”

“Prim.”

“Oh.” Peeta shifts uncomfortably, almost as though guilty of something. “Well, once is enough, right? Not every day you meet Santa Claus’ daughter,” he jokes.

“Technically, I _am_ Santa Claus now,” she replies, taking a sip of the milk by the plate.

“Where’s your red and white jumpsuit, then?” he asks, and there it is again, the warmth and the teasing and the utter _ease_ , and she realises why she doesn’t like it – she doesn’t like it because she doesn’t have it, this complete comfort that Peeta seems to practically radiate. She can’t remember _ever_ having it.

“I left it at home,” Katniss tells him shortly, taking another cookie and biting into it before she can do something stupid like continue the conversation.

“I see,” if Peeta’s picked up on her attempts to close up the interaction between them, he doesn’t seem to show it. “Well, at least you’re kind of there,” he points out, gesturing towards her sweater, which is a deep crimson. Her boots and trousers remain unchanged from last year.

“Next year it’ll have white stripes,” she comments dryly before she can stop herself. To her surprise, Peeta lets out a laugh, even though she isn’t all too sure it’s that funny.

“I look forward to it,” he informs her with a smile, and she notices for the first time that his cheeks dimple when he does that. It reminds her almost immediately of Prim, and for the first time, Katniss notices how similar Peeta is to her little sister, all smiles and goodness even for a complete stranger.

Complete strangers. That’s what her and Peeta are to each other, she realises. So why does it feel like she already knows him?

“So...what do you do when you’re not whizzing around the planet at top speed once a year?” The dimples have returned with a vengeance, as has the dazed feeling that hit Katniss earlier. What is _wrong_ with her?

“Nothing of that much interest,” she says brusquely, getting up as she does so.

“Aw, come on,” he follows her to the fireplace. “There must be _something_.”

“Not really,” she replies, and she starts to step into the fireplace, but he catches her wrist, and the contact makes her freeze, rooted to the spot.

“Don’t you have a setting on your sled that can make you go round super fast, or something?” he asks with another warm smile. Katniss says nothing. “Stay,” he says hesitantly after a bit. “Please?”

“How long?” she asks, and she’s pretty sure that isn’t the right thing to say, but she isn’t good with talking to humans. She’s pretty sure Peeta’s the first one her age she’s actually conversed with in at least fifty years.

“As long as it takes for you to tell me what you do when it’s not Christmas,” he quips, and he hasn’t let go of her wrist yet, and she doesn’t even know whether she wants him to. Katniss realises a beat too late that she’s been staring at where his fingers are wrapped around her wrist, long and thin and kind of... _nice_. She jerks her hand out of his grasp a little too suddenly, looking up to see him waiting patiently with a small smile on his face.

“I...” she trails off, and she doesn’t know if it’s because she can’t think of anything that she does outside of Christmas, or if it’s because she can’t think _at all_ , with the way he’s looking at her.

“You...?”

“Archery,” she says suddenly.

Peeta raises an eyebrow. “Archery?”

“Yeah,” Katniss knows that it’s childish of her to let the defensive tone slip into her tone, but she can’t help it. “What do _you_ do, bake cookies?”

“Well,” Peeta says with a smile that shows how little he’s offended by her comment, “yeah. I work at my parents’ bakery on Saturdays. Other than that,” he continues, “I’m kinda trying hard to survive my senior year of high school. Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “it’s a lot easier than it was last year. That’s why I was up when you came down last year,” Peeta explains. “Studying and stuff.”

“And why were you up this year?” Katniss asks, raising one eyebrow, but she thinks she already knows, and her suspicions are only confirmed by the very faint shade of pink that Peeta’s cheeks turn.

“I wanted to see you again,” he says quietly, but the strange thing is, he doesn’t seem embarrassed – if anything, he sounds more earnest than before.

“To make sure I was real?” she snorts.

“Something like that,” Peeta replies, lips twitching up into yet another smile. Katniss is tempted to push it, wonder just what he means by _something like that_ , but instead stays silent, settling for watching him carefully as he crosses back over to the kitchen area of the wide living space and rearranging everything on the counter carefully, his back to her.

“Was staying up last year worth it?”

“Huh?”

“Was it worth it? I mean, did you get a decent mark or grade or whatever?”

“I, uh...yeah,” Peeta turns to face her, leaning against the counter with a close to bemused look on his face. “I mean. Yes.”

“Good,” Katniss shrugs.

“So,” Peeta hops onto the counter with practiced ease, swinging his legs as he sits. “Tell me about archery.”

Katniss bristles slightly, thinking that he’s probably just making fun of her, but the look in his eyes is frustratingly sincere, and her mouth ends up forming the words of its own accord. “Is there much to tell?” she asks, and she _really_ hopes she’s imagining the light bordering on joking tone in her voice.

“More than there is to tell about baking,” he offers in return. He’s got her there, she thinks.

“I don’t know. My dad taught me when I was younger. I guess it turned into something I liked doing a lot.”

Now, with all the lights in the room turned on, Katniss is fully expecting for the pity to come seeping into Peeta’s expression at the mention of her father. To her surprise, it doesn’t; in its place is a carefully trained set of features, almost as if – almost as if Peeta knows. What it feels like. How being sorry isn’t enough and the look of pity digs into your skin, doesn’t do anything else.

“That’s cool,” he says, and his tone is bright. “You any good?”

“I guess I’m alright.”

“I bet anything you’re better than alright.”

“Does it matter?” she asks, almost irritated.

“It does.” Peeta pauses, before adding: “to me.”

“I should go,” Katniss mutters, barely audible above the chair scraping against the wooden floor as she pushes it back to get up.

“Okay,” and there it is, the disappointment she thought she heard last year and can definitely hear this year. She deposits the presents quickly underneath the tree and heads to the tree without looking at him. “Till next year?” he asks hopefully.

Katniss doesn’t reply, but she thinks her silence is probably more than enough.

 

**_another year later_ **

 

The next year, Peeta has fallen asleep on the rug in front of the fireplace.

Katniss takes the opportunity to study him carefully, and is rather surprised by what she sees – it seems in the year since she last saw him, Peeta has moved from being a boy and is heading to becoming a man. His features have sharpened and, she notes as she tries desperately to ignore the heat rising to her cheeks, his muscles seem to have defined themselves a little more too. What really gives her pause is how much more tired he looks, dark circles clear under his eyes and hair far too messy to be acceptable. The fact that he’s fallen asleep on the floor is probably a hint, too.

Katniss doesn’t have the heart to wake him, and besides, she isn’t sure what she would do about a conversation this time. Probably something stupid. Like just stop talking, or, even worse, let her cheeks go pink when he looks at her in a certain way. No, she thinks to herself, best to leave now while she can, because she knows if Peeta wakes up he’ll manage to rope her into staying. She moves noiselessly to the tree, leaves the batch of presents underneath it, before heading back to the fireplace. Something on the table across from her catches her eye, and she’s already looking before she can stop herself. There’s the normal plate of cookies, the tall glass of milk, and something else – what looks like a sketchbook that’s been left open, a pencil lying across its pages. Katniss’ feet move closer to the table of their own accord, and she can just make out the drawing in the pale and fleeting light of the early morning.

It is a drawing of her.

She supposes she should have known that there was more to Peeta than cookies and good marks, but even so, the picture almost knocks the breath out of her lungs, the girl far more beautiful than she could ever be. Katniss swallows slowly and gives the sketchbook one last long look, before taking soft, quick steps to the fireplace and hauling herself up the chimney.

 

**_another year after that_ **

 

“I didn’t see you last year,” Peeta says quietly as she dusts the residue from the chimney off her clothes.

“You were asleep,” she replies shortly in explanation, leaning over to take the bag from the fireplace. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“What if I wanted to be awoken?”

“You looked terrible,” Katniss turns to him with a frank expression on her face. “What you want isn’t always what you need.”

The words however between the two of them, static but crackling with something she can’t name. She drags her eyes away from Peeta’s caught off guard expression, turns her attentions instead to the tree, walking over and beginning to arrange the presents underneath it.

“Well, this is a first,” she hears Peeta’s voice after some time, far closer than she thought it would be, enough for it to rustle the strands of hair that have come loose from her braid and tickle the back of her neck.

“What is?” Katniss asks, having to ball her hands into fists to keep herself from turning around.

“You actually putting an effort into making the presents not look like they’ve just been thrown there,” he replies, and she can hear the laugh in her voice, not needing to turn around. “Usually I have to sort them out before everyone else wakes up.”

At this, she can’t keep staring at the bottom half of the Christmas tree any longer, and compulsion to turn around is too much to bear – so she gives into it, twisting her upper body enough to give Peeta an unamused look. Katniss can’t keep it up for long, though, when she realises that she hadn’t been anticipating his complete unawareness of personal space. The two of them are almost nose to nose, and she can just make out the blush on Peeta’s cheeks. They simply stare at each other for a few moments that seem to drag on for far longer, but eventually he clears his throat, backing away slightly with a muttered; “Sorry.”

The two of them sit in silence for a few brief moments, legs sprawled across the carpet in front of the tree, before Katniss blurts out: “tell me about your brothers.”

Peeta looks at her sharply, clearly bemused. “What?”

“These can’t all be for you, right? And I’m guessing Rye isn’t exactly a girl’s name. You know about Prim. Tell me about your brothers.”

He gives her another look, as though confused as to why she’d want to know about him at all. It tugs at something in her; for all his ease and charm, it seems Peeta doesn’t have many people who do this, take the time to sit and listen to him talk about _him_. Katniss isn’t sure she’s best qualified for the job, but she convinces herself that she has time that she doesn’t have at all, and before she can do something like tell herself not to, she moves so that she’s sitting next to him, presses her side against his.

Peeta exhales slightly, and does what he’s asked, relates to her funny anecdotes, informs her of personality traits and tells her long winded stories about him and his brothers.

She lets him talk until he falls asleep.

 

**_one more year later_ **

 

“We really need to stop meeting like this,” Peeta jokes as she bends over to step out of the fireplace, and she almost falls over, because his voice is _low_ and _deep_ and _when did that happen?_ “My girlfriend’s just upstairs.”

“Girlfriend?” Katniss repeats, maybe a little too quickly.

“Relax,” he grins at her, helping her out, and maybe it says something, how she doesn’t immediately refuse the assistance and lets her palm stay clasped with his for a few seconds longer than necessary. “I was kidding.”

“Right,” perhaps she sounds a little disbelieving, but can anyone blame her? Peeta goes to college, and he’s sweet and charming and, well, _good-looking_. Why wouldn’t he have a girlfriend?

“I don’t,” he laughs.

“What, none of the college girls catch your eye?”

“You know I’m in college?”

“Hard _not_ to know,” Katniss replies, nodding at the books piled high on the...well, on just about any surface they can be piled on.

“Oh, yeah,” he says sheepishly.

“So...”

“So?”

“No girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend,” Peeta confirms, and is she imagining the smirk playing on his lips? She certainly isn’t imagining the sudden urge to slap it right off his face.

“Why not?”

“I guess you could say I’ve got my sights set on someone else,” he responds lightly. Katniss’ stomach feels bottomless, and she has to pinch the heel of her hand to stop feeling all... _weird._

“Got any cookies?” she asks, changing the subject with about as much subtlety as a gun.

“Looks like someone’s developed a craving,” Peeta teases, but he’s already sliding a plate across to her, so it doesn’t have much bite.

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, already bringing one to her lips.

“Oh!” Peeta says after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “I almost forgot.”

“What?”

He doesn’t reply, only gets up and goes into an adjoining room quickly. She watches after him for a moment, before returning to the plate of cookies. A few minutes later, and she hears Peeta before seeing him, his heavy footsteps resounding down the hall. “You’re going to get me fat on these,” she comments to him without turning around.

“With all the chimneys you’re jumping down, I think you’re okay,” he replies, and suddenly his hands are coming down over her eyes, skin soft against her face.

“What are you doing?” Katniss asks sharply, already beginning to lean away.

“Relax,” he says, his tone light enough to comfort her a bit. “I knew you wouldn’t close your eyes if I asked you to, so I thought it would probably be best to skip that part just in case we got into some argument that meant I couldn’t show you at all.”

“Show me what?”

“Your present!” he chirps, and at that he removes his hands, lets her eyes fall onto the wrapped gift sat in front of her on the table.

“I didn’t get you anything,” Katniss says stupidly, staring at the package as though it’s about to explode.

“Sure you didn’t,” Peeta deadpans, giving the presents under the tree a pointed look.

“That’s different,” she protests, and she’s not just saying this, she _needs_ Peeta to understand – “you don’t _owe_ me anything.”

Peeta frowns. “Of course I don’t. It’s a _gift_ , Katniss. It’s not about owing.”

“What _is_ it about, then?” she retorts, and she knows that this is stupid, that she’s getting angry over nothing, but she doesn’t _understand_ Peeta, and she isn’t sure he understands her, either, the way he thinks she can just _accept_ a gift, but it’s not like that, does he not know? That she’ll always owe him, that every biscuit and glass of milk and shy smile is a debt she can’t repay?

Peeta averts his eyes. “I think you know,” he says, voice calm and quiet.

“Well, I _don’t_ ,” she lies furiously, standing up from the table. “Mind telling me?”

“Katniss – ”

“No!” and she knows his family is just upstairs, that any louder and they’ll probably wake up, but she can’t help it. “You can’t just – just do – ”

“Do what?”

“ _This!”_ she lets out in a hoarse, hushed voice equivalent to a thousand decibel scream. “The biscuits and the food and the waiting up and now _presents_ – ”

“It’s not like I don’t want to,” Peeta rises with her now, letting his tone become defensive. Katniss almost welcomes it, this _angriness_ that she never gets out of him, the way it makes her feel less like such a sinner in comparison to his saintliness. “No one’s making me.”

“Then _why_?” she raises her arms in question. “Why bother? Why take the time – ”

“ _God_ , Katniss, is it really that hard?”

“ _What_?” and _now_ she’s furious, livid with the way he’s acting like she’s stupid, a child, stumbling naïve and clueless in his footsteps.

“I _like_ you!” he cries. “I didn’t know how else I could make it more obvious without writing it across my forehead in permanent marker!”

Katniss stands and stares silently at him and says nothing because she has nothing to say. Peeta’s confession sparks something in her, a curl of fear deep in her belly that takes root when she realises that _she might like him too_. And she can’t. It’s not something she can do.

So she stands and stares silently at him, and she tries to open her mouth and say something, _anything_ , but the words get stuck in her throat – not that there were very many in the first place. So Katniss shakes her head and moves to the fireplace and hauls herself up the chimney, trying desperately to push the look on Peeta’s face out of her head.

 

**_yet another year later_ **

 

Peeta is not there when she lands in his living room with ash covered boots and lips pressed into a thin line.

There is still a plate of cookies and a glass of milk. Beside them is her present from last year, still in pristine condition, wrapped perfectly, and she feels the sight of it grate against something inside of her.

She slips the present under her sweater and takes the plate for good measure. Prim will enjoy the biscuits, she tells herself.

 

****

**_a year more_ **

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into her hair after pulling her into an embrace before she can react.

“I missed you,” she whispers back into his shoulder.

 

**_another year more_ **

 

Katniss has always told herself that she will not let it happen. Not ever.

But _Peeta._

It’s been two years since he’s finished college, and she watches the world take its toll on him as she sits on the sidelines, coming in only one night every year, stealing hours with him to make up for the days she misses. His fingers grow longer, he grows taller, fills out more, his smile still not easy but not like it was before.

Peeta, she realises, is growing up.

And she is not.

And herein lies the real problem. Peeta, she knows, is no longer a boy. He is a man, an _adult_ , with a life ready to have, wife and children and a Christmas tree of his own. And as long he keeps looking at her that way when he thinks she can’t see him, what can she do?

Katniss is selfish for savouring the brush of his fingers against hers, his soft smile and his funny stories. Peeta is waiting, subconsciously, for something she will never be able to give him.

“I can’t,” she says suddenly. Peeta looks up from a sketch he’s making of the fireplace to look at her questioningly.

“Peeta...” Katniss attempts weakly, before trailing off, shaking her head. “You...I...”

“Katniss?”

“I know what you want,” she mutters eventually. “And I can’t give it to you.”

“Do you?” she looks up and, to her surprise, Peeta is wearing a small smile.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid, Katniss,” he says softly. “You think I don’t notice that you look exactly the same as you did eight years ago?”

Katniss’ breath catches at the use of the time phrase. Has it really been so long since she first jumped down Peeta’s chimney?

“I know what I want,” he tells her, and suddenly he’s closer than he was before, fingers slipping under her chin to push it up so she’s looking at him. “What do _you_ want?”

He’s better than she is with words. She’s never been good with the things anyway; they’re always blurted out or said too quickly or not said at all. But actions, she can do. Katniss can manage actions. So instead of answering him, she moves forwards and presses her lips to his before she can tell herself that it’s a bad idea.

Maybe Peeta wasn’t all too sure of himself after all, because it takes a few moments for him to respond, and she keeps _pressing pressing pressing_ until she feels him pressing back, the two of them sat by the tree, and she doesn’t realise they’re moving until her back presses against the bottom of the couch, lets her hands tangle in Peeta’s hair and moves the heels of her boots up and down the back of his calves. The shiver she feels resonate through his spine makes her toes curl with something warm and inexplicable, makes her hungry for more.

“Confession?” Peeta mumbles through kisses he’s pressing down her neck.

“Go on, then,” she gasps, tugging at the back of his shirt as he finds a spot that makes her muscles tense and release of their own accord.

“Those boots,” he says, “will be the death of me.”

“What?” Katniss isn’t sure if she’s actually confused or if she just can’t think straight through the haze he’s created.

“You have no idea,” Peeta moves back a bit to look at her in disbelief. “The effect you have.”

“Effect?”

“On me, mostly,” he says with a wry grin, leaning back in to peck at her lips. “Do you even know how good those boots look on you?”

She glances down at her feet as a faint blush coloured her cheeks. “I...”

Katniss thinks she hears Peeta mumble something along the lines of _sexy as hell_ , and it’s enough to deepen the dark pink of her cheeks to a light red. He gives her a grin, one that makes her heart skip slightly in a way she forces herself not to think about. To force it out of her mind, she leans forward, fits her lips to Peeta’s more than willing ones. His kisses and touches will be enough for now, she thinks.

 

**_a year after that_ **

 

“Isn’t it strange to you?” she questions in an almost whisper as they both sit by the tree.

“What?”

“Staying up for Santa Claus.”

“I don’t stay up for Santa Claus. I stay up for Katniss.”

Peeta’s hand finds hers in the darkness, and with that she knows. All it’s taken for Peeta is nine days, nine _years_ , nine Christmas Eves, to find a way of slipping into her heart and staying there, feet planted firmly in pride of place next to Prim and her father.

 _Where are you now, Papa?_ she questions silently. She wonders what would’ve happened if he were still here. Peeta would be nothing more than another boy in another house, another tree to leave presents under and another chimney to jump down. Katniss would know nothing about his brothers or the taste of his cookies or the taste of his _lips_ , the feeling of his skin against hers or the way he bites his lip when he draws, how his brothers tease him but he loves them anyway.

“Peeta,” she says hoarsely, because she’s been thinking about it for a long time. “When I first came to your house.”

“Yeah?”

“You thought I was your father.”

Silence.

She turns to face him, presses her fingers to his cheek softly. “Oh, Peeta.”

“I...” he looks almost lost, too much like the boy who found her nine years ago. “He’d just died,” he chokes out, voice raw as nails on a chalkboard. “And I used to...at night. I used to think it was him. Sometimes. I’d talk to myself...say it couldn’t be him, but for all the wrong reasons. I’d have heard him come down. He’d have left the light open. He’d be shooing me into bed. It made it easier, you know? Throwing myself into my studies, talking myself out of it. Then you...you just kinda turned up, and there you were, doing your father’s job, taking care of your sister, and I felt so _stupid_ , you know?”

“Peeta – ”

“It’s just. You were going through exactly the same thing as I was. But you didn’t talk to yourself or pretend it was just a bad dream. You just...kept going. And it made me want to keep going too.”

She can see his eyes in the darkness, bright blue as ever. “I never said thank you for that,” he says gently.

“You didn’t need to,” Katniss says automatically, and it’s true.

They lapse back into silence.  “I never told you,” Peeta says eventually. “About my dad.”

“I guessed.”

His fingers squeeze hers again. She thinks about how he stays up waiting for her every Christmas eve, how he’s getting older, but decides to save that talk for next time.

 

**_one more year_ **

 

“You can’t do this anymore,” she tells him.

“Do what?”

Katniss knows he’s trying to play dumb, but she’s not going to humour him any longer. “Wait for me,” she says. “Get older and live your life on a day that comes once a year.”

He looks up for the first time, and a glance at his face makes her want so badly to take it back. But she can’t, she tells herself. This is for Peeta.

“What if I want to?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “You can’t, Peeta. You can’t carry on like this.”

“Why not?”

“When do you stop? Will you still be sat here when you’re an old man?”

Katniss needs him to understand. He can’t be the boy he was before. He’s not a boy any more, waiting up for Santa Claus. _Don’t you know that?_ she thinks. _Don’t you see that I’ll never forgive myself if you stay sat here at the fireplace_.

“Katniss,” Peeta presses his forehead to hers, and she knows what’s coming, feels the confession curl up through her before it leaves his lips. “Don’t you see? I love you.”

“I know,” she whispers, and she can’t bring herself to pull away from him, not yet. “So you have to do this, Peeta. For me.”

“But – ”

“I know what you want,” Katniss does pull away now, averts her eyes. “You want a wife. You want kids. I can’t give you that. You know that.”

“I don’t need it. I don’t want it any more. I want you.”

“Peeta,” she says, and she hates how her voice shakes. “You want me, but how often can you get me? Once a year for a few hours?”

“Does it matter?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. “Of course it does. You can’t spend your life sat in front of a fireplace. You deserve better.”

“What about you?” he asks sharply.

Now it’s her turn to play dumb. “What about me?”

“Katniss...”

She knows now what she has to do. She’s played all her cards. She’s only got one left. Swallowing the heavy feeling that resonates through her, and willing her voice to keep from wavering, she says; “It wasn’t going to last anyway. You know that.”

The look on Peeta’s face is one Katniss knows will be etched permanently onto her memory. “Katniss – ”

“Peeta, I know you – I know how you feel about me. But I don’t...it’s not like that for me. I care about you differently.” The words sound hollow even to her, empty and emotionless.

“Differently?” Peeta echoes faintly.

“I...”

“Tell me something,” he takes a step closer to her. “You mean it? You don’t love me?”

“Not like that,” Katniss replies, trying to keep her voice steady, but it’s a whisper, hesitant and unsure. “I’m not...I’m not made to love like that.”

And that much is true. Isn’t it?

He exhales slowly, shakily. “Okay.”

“Peeta – ”

“It’s okay. I’m sorry I...I’m sorry you...I’m sorry.”

They stand in silence until it’s too much for her to take.

“I should...I should go...”

“Right.”

But there is no _until next year_ , no _I’ll see you next Christmas Eve, then?_ All she sees in Peeta’s eyes is an emptiness, one that scares her.

He’ll be fine, she tells herself. He will be.

She hesitates, moves forward, rises up on her tiptoes to brush a gentle kiss on his cheek. The way he flinches at the gesture near tears her heart in two.

Then, she steps into the fireplace and climbs up the chimney.

 

**_the last year_ **

 

 

Katniss has jumped five times down Peeta Mellark’s chimney after that. True to his word, he has not been there to wait for her.

The sixth time, there is a plate of cookies and a glass of milk waiting on the table. She approaches it carefully, and catches sight of the note left by the plate, written in the large, unsteady handwriting of a young child.

_Dear SANTA,_

_Thank you for bringing me and Mama and Papa presents every year. I left you these, because Papa said they’re your favourites._

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
